The Baker's Boy (35 page)

Melli couldn't
believe this was happening to her. How could the magistrate take their word
against hers? She wondered with dread what her punishment would be.

The magistrate
coughed loudly and spoke again, "I can see you speak the truth, Mistress
Greal. The girl is obviously a bad seed. Master Hulbit has agreed to take her
horse in payment for the tavern bill; however, I feel the girl must be
punished. We must beat the evil from her. Not only must she pay a fine of five
golds, she will also be flogged twenty times, in full public view in the town
square." The magistrate looked to Mistress Greal and Edrad, both of whom
looked satisfied with his pronouncement.

"It is a fair
sentence, magistrate, very fair," said Edrad. "Will she be flogged
with a leather or a rope?" asked Mistress Greal.

"I think the
rope will prove most unpleasant, don't you agree, Mistress Greal?"

"You are most
wise, magistrate. The sting of the rope will certainly force the evil from the
girl." Mistress Greal looked pleased. "Though may I be so bold as to
make a suggestion?" .

"Certainly,
Mistress Greal, I value your judicious opinion in all matters."

"Perhaps the
rope should be soaked in salted water first. We wouldn't want the girl's
punishment to be a half-measure, would we?"

"Wise as
ever, Mistress Greal," said the magistrate. "Now, I believe that
Master Hulbit has said the girl can work in his tavern to pay off any
fine?"

"He has
indeed, magistrate," replied Mistress Greal, shooting a malicious glance
in Melli's direction.

"Excellent.
After the girl has recovered from the beating, she will be sent back here to
work. This has turned out most neatly. She will be flogged at two hours past
noon tomorrow. She will be kept in my custody until then." The magistrate
turned to Melli. "Follow me, girl, and quick about it."

He led her out
onto the street and through the town. Everyone on the streets was staring at
Melli, and she hung her head in embarrassment. After a while they approached a
stone building. "You'll be spending the night in the pit," said the
magistrate. "Let it be a lesson to you."

Jack shifted
against his bindings. Pain coursed through his arm and down his back. For the
briefest instant, the pain crystallized into something tangible. The pit of his
stomach contracted and pressure flared within his head. Even as Jack recognized
what it was, it left him. The loaves. It was the same feeling he'd experienced
before the loaves. Jack rested his head against the huge oak. There was no
doubt now. The loaves hadn't been a lone occurrence. He'd felt power again, and
its taste was sickeningly familiar.

He was suddenly
afraid. It seemed to Jack as if his fate was now sealed. All his life, he'd
lived in a world full of reason: dough rose because of yeast, the longer the
rising the better the bread, the larger the loaf the fresher it kept: simple
truths that never changed. Now he was in a world where nothing was certain;
where burnt loaves turned to dough, where anger or pain could spark the flare
of power, and where the future held no promise of peace.

Jack pulled
against the rope-there was no give.

The mercenaries
had bound him to a tree to stop him from fleeing. They'd ridden hard all
morning, heading east in . search of Melli, and were now resting their horses.
Jack needed water. He had neither food nor fluid all day. And now more than
ever, with the metallic tang of sorcery in his mouth, he was desperate for a
drink. He called to the guards. One came sauntering over.

"What d'you
want?"

"Water,
please." Jack's throat was dry and sore. The mercenary kicked him hard on
the shins.

"Bit uppity
for a prisoner, ain't you." Just as he walked away, the leader, Traff,
spoke up:

"Give him
some water, Harl. After all, the boy did think to bring us a few gifts. Right
polite of him, if you ask me." The rest of the men laughed heartily. Traff
was referring to Falk's sack of supplies, which the mercenaries had wasted no
time claiming as their own. It upset Jack to watch as they greedily tore at the
precious food, gnawing on joints of meat and then flinging them away
half-eaten. The dried fruits and nuts were scattered over the cold ground-the
men had no interest in those.

"And find him
half a loaf," said Traff. "If I remember rightly, it was Winter's Eve
last night, and we don't want to be discourteous to our guest." More
laughter followed this remark. Jack was brought a cup of watered ale and a hunk
of bread.

Winter's Eve. Had
he been gone from the castle that long? Frallit would not be pleased at being a
man short for the second biggest festival of the year. There would have been
scores of fancy breads to be baked: honey cakes, gingerbreads, malted fruit
loaves. Normally at this time, Jack's hands would be stained yellow with
saffron. Rare spices were sprinkled as liberally as salt on feast days. It was
Jack's job to cook the frumenty, which was cracked wheat mixed with milk, eggs,
and saffron. No festival was complete without a plentiful supply of that
much-loved golden porridge.

Jack felt so
alone. Feast days were the best time to be in the kitchens: plenty of food and
ale, everyone busy and merry. There'd be joking and dancing and a few stolen
kisses. He missed it all so much. For the first time since leaving the castle,
he realized what he'd lost: his friends, his life, his mother's memory; they
were all back at Harvell. He had belonged there. It was his home.

Jack picked up the
cup, turning it slowly in his hand. Ale was dripping from its side. It took him
a moment to spot the hairline crack.

He might have
belonged, but he never fitted in. Even before the loaves he was an outsider.
Everyone had something that set them apart: Master Frallit was as bald as a
berry, Willock the cellar steward had a club foot, even Findra the table maid
had to bear the shame of being caught in the hayloft with the blacksmith. To
them, being taunted was part of being accepted; it was done in good humor and
served to include rather than exclude the person in question.

For him it was
different-the jokes were behind his back, not to his face. Jack took up the cup
with his free arm. He noticed his hand was still trembling from what had
happened earlier. Was this his fate, then? Always to be excluded, to be set
apart, to be an outcast? He flung the cup from him. Let the flavor of sorcery
stay in his mouth. It tasted of loneliness, and that was something he'd have to
get used to.

"No, Bodger,
just because you tumble a wench when it's raining doesn't mean that she won't
get knocked up."

"But Master
Trout swears by it. He says that it's a sure method to stop a girl from getting
with child."

"The only
reason Master Trout has never got a wench with child is that no sane woman
would ever let him near her."

"He is a bit
past it, Grift."

"Aye, Bodger,
there's only one method to ensure a wench doesn't get knocked up and it ain't
rollickin' her in the rain."

"What is it
then, Grift?"

"The way to
stop a girl getting knocked up is by making sure you never rollick her in the
nude."

"What, the
woman?"

"No, you
fool, the man. Be sure to always keep your shirt on, Bodger, and you'll never
be an unwilling father." Grift nodded sagely to Bodger, and Bodger nodded
sagely back.

"It's
terrible what happened last night in the banquet hall, Grift."

"Aye, Bodger.
By all accounts the fire caused quite a panic. Lords and ladies scurrying like
rats, they were."

"I took a
look at the damage this morning, Grift. The whole back wall went up in
flames."

"Aye, Bodger,
I can't help wondering how it started."

"The queen's
pronounced it an accident, Grift. Says it was fallen candles that did it."

"It's more
than that, Bodger. I had a word with one of the lads who was serving the
drinks. He said the whole room moved under everyone's feet, said something
knocked people down where they stood, and all the metal cups were hot to the
touch. If you ask me, something very nasty happened last night."

"Still, it
was lucky that only one man was killed."

"You got a
look at the body, didn't you, Bodger? Could they tell who it was?"

"Not a
chance, Grift, the poor soul was burnt to a crisp. . . terrible death."

"So no one
knows who died, Bodger?"

"No, no one's
been reported missing, Grift. There was a drunken squire at the back of the hall
when it happened, says he saw a man in black, but no one's paying his story
much heed. The only clue is the dead man's dagger. It was found right next to
him on the floor. Course the blade was ruined by the heat, but it was the only
thing that was left-all his clothes had been burnt off his back. It was
horrifying, Grift. I've never seen a worse sight in all my life than that
charred and blackened body."

"What sort of
knife was it, Bodger?"

"Well, that's
the strange thing, Grift. It wasn't a man's eating knife. One of the lords said
it was a curious kind of knife to take to a dance."

"There's a
lot more going on here than meets the eye. The queen might have pronounced it
an accident, Bodger, but I for one can't see anything accidental about the way
that man died."

Lord Maybor was
seriously ill; he had spent the night gasping desperately for each breath.

By the morning his
condition was so bad that the physicians and priests were called. Maybor lay on
his bed, barely conscious, struggling for air. He was coughing up much blood.
The red rash looked much worse; his skin was now raised and puckered. Sores had
formed around his nose and mouth, oozing blood and pus.

The doctors did
not know what to make of the great lord's illness. It was like nothing they had
encountered before. They immediately ruled out the pox and water fever. It
appeared to them that Maybor's windpipe and lungs were being burnt away from
within. They shook their heads gravely, not holding out much hope. They
prescribed filling the room with the smoke from fragrant woods to penetrate
Maybor's lungs and drive out the malignant humors.

Maybor refused to
let the physicians fill the room with smoke. Wheezing for breath, he ordered
them away. The priests then stepped forward, with their precious oils and
waters, sprinkling and chanting, preparing for death.

"Be gone, you
damned clerics, I am not dead yet!" Maybor fell back amongst his pillows,
coughing feebly, barely able to breathe, but still able to feel pleasure at the
sight of the priests scurrying away like rats.

He asked for his
sons, but his two youngest had headed off to the front to do battle with the
Halcus. Such was the fate of younger sons-they either sought glory in battle or
commiseration in the priesthood. Maybor was well pleased that he had raised no
priests.

Kedrac entered the
room, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell of sickness. As he saw his father,
he attempted, unsuccessfully, to conceal the horror that he felt. "Father,
what has become of you?"

Maybor saw
revulsion in his son's face and beckoned Crandle to bring the splinter of
mirror. Kedrac took the mirror from the servant and would not let his father
have it. Maybor had not the strength to protest.

"Father, I
spoke with you only a day ago. What has happened since to cause this
affliction?"

"I do not
know, son." Maybor could only manage a rasped whisper.

"Could poison
be the cause of this?"

"Any food or
ale consumed by his lordship last night at the dance would have been sampled by
many others. I have heard of no one else with any sickness," said Crandle.
Both men turned to look as Maybor succumbed to a terrible fit of coughing. When
he had finished, the sheets were speckled with blood.

"What do the
doctors say?" Kedrac asked of Crandle.

"They do not
know what ails his lordship. They advised smoke."

"Smoke! Are
they out of their minds? The man can barely breathe as it is."

A soft knock was
heard at the door, and the queen walked in. Her cold, haughty face changed when
she saw the condition of Lord Maybor and she froze in mid-step. "Is it the
pox?" she demanded of Kedrac.

"No, Your
Highness," he said bowing. The queen breathed once more and approached the
bed.

She saw the look
of amazement on Kedrac's face and said in way of explanation, "Your father
was requested to meet with me this morning. When he failed to come, I decided
to seek him out for myself. I see he is most unwell. What ails him?"
Maybor tried to speak for himself, but was overcome with coughing.

"The doctors
do not know what afflicts him, Your Highness." Kedrac smoothed his hair
and adjusted his clothes.

"Doctors!
They are fools, they only made the king worse. I will send you my wisewoman-she
is skilled in the lore of herbs. If anyone can help him she can." The
queen looked with sympathy at Maybor. "I am well used to sickness, but
this I cannot understand. Why, only last night I watched Lord Maybor. He was as
healthy as a man can be. Was this caused by the fire?"

"No, Your
Highness," offered Crandle humbly. "Lord Maybor left the hall just
before the fire started."

The queen gently
squeezed Maybor's arm. "I will go now, but I am glad I came. I will send
my woman to you the moment I gain my chamber. Good day." She nodded to
Kedrac and left the room. The moment she left, Maybor snatched the sliver of
mirror from his son. With shaking hand he drew the mirror to his face. Seeing
its hideous reflection, he dissolved into a fit of tortuous coughing.

Later on, as
dawn's first light stole into the room, Baralis had become restless, tossing
and turning in his bed. Crope hurried to his side and saw that his master was
drenched with sweat and shaking violently. He felt Baralis' brow and found it
was hot to the touch. Quickly, he hurried for water to cool the burning, and
with a gentle touch he wetted the brow.